


the bud of the bud

by Kate_Lear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest undercover role that Sherlock Holmes has ever achieved has been to hide in plain sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bud of the bud

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the most recent thegameison_sh challenge - _Undercover_. Contains poetry and abundant amounts of fluff (I’m sure you’re shocked…) Thanks very much to fengirl88 for letting me bounce the idea off her. The title - and the snippets - are from e.e. cumming's _[i carry your heart](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179622)._

The greatest undercover role that Sherlock Holmes has ever achieved has been to hide in plain sight. In public he dons the persona of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, cold-hearted but intellectually brilliant, and acts it with never a slip nor a stutter. In private, however, he is Sherlock Holmes, a man like any other, and utterly devoted lover of John Watson.

\----------

**whatever a sun will always sing is you**

‘It would be too dangerous for you if this were public knowledge,’ Sherlock had said, immediately after the first time they tumbled into bed and John found that Sherlock’s well guarded heart was more than a match for his brain.

‘You’re already in danger for being my...’ Sherlock hesitated.

 _Friend,_ John thought fiercely, lips tingling from Sherlock’s kisses. _Foremost and always, I’m your friend._

‘–but if it was known that you… that we… Moriarty’s gone, but there are others. People who would use you – _hurt_ you – to get to me and I… I couldn’t…’ Sherlock’s face was still flushed and blotchy with sex and he looked almost beside himself, as though each word physically pained him. ‘Do you understand? It’s not that I don’t want to, or that I could give a… a _fuck_ what people think, it’s–’

And at last John had had to lean up to kiss his beautiful, down-turned mouth and whisper, ‘I know. It’s alright.’

\----------

**i am never without it (anywhere  
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing, my darling)**

An unremarkable crime scene in January and John’s leg is nagging him, aching for _no bloody reason_ until Sherlock growls impatiently that he can’t work like this and sends John home. John grits his teeth against the pain and the sympathetic glances from the Yard and goes, unwilling to admit his relief.

But he finds in the taxi that not only has Sherlock light-fingered fifty pounds into his pocket for the fare, but that John can hardly keep up with the flurry of texts demanding his professional opinion on this and that; an unspoken Sherlockian _I miss you_.

\----------

**i fear  
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want  
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)**

Another killer caught, another case solved, and John is giddy with adrenaline and his close escape as Sherlock explains his deductions to Lestrade under the flickering sodium glare of streetlights. Sherlock is imperious and arrogant and _breathtaking_ , but he barely glances behind himself to check whether John is following when he strides away.

Only in the haven of their flat does Sherlock push John into his chair and kneel in front of him, head in John’s lap and arms tight around his waist, while John pets Sherlock’s hair and murmurs, ‘It’s alright. I made it. I’m okay.’

\----------

**this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart**

John hopes that one day Sherlock will believe his protestations that he can look after himself, and that the meticulously crafted public roles of Cold-Hearted Genius and Long-Suffering Partner will no longer be necessary. Mycroft has already guessed, if his approving smiles are any indication, and John doesn’t think Lestrade is far behind.

But in affairs of the heart, Sherlock seems much younger than the few years separating him from John, and so John is content to play along with whatever charade Sherlock needs. He tolerates Sherlock’s haughty impatience, and his brusqueness, and the pitying whispers from Scotland Yard that these evoke. He tolerates them for the sake of tea and shoulder massages on the sofa, and feignedly casual phone calls to the clinic that mean _Everything is boring except you_ , and for sleepy kisses in the morning, and hungry kisses in the evening.

At night, in their bed, Sherlock will wrap John up in long limbs, face buried in John’s chest or tucked into the curve of his ruined shoulder. John will nuzzle kisses into the black curls and murmur private bits of nonsense to a sleeping Sherlock that he’s too embarrassed to say in daylight – random thoughts, and poetry snippets from a book that some poor bastard had left behind at the base in Afghanistan when he was killed. In the dark, still hours while the city sleeps, John will relax into Sherlock’s clinging embrace, rub his cheek against silky hair, and whisper to him, ‘ _Here is the deepest secret nobody knows. I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart._ ’

\--End--


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